Bad luck with the dice

Silke almost said something harmless at that moment. Something like, “That’s cute, your game.” Instead, she picked up the die because Tim was looking at her as if not rolling it would be a betrayal of the group.

“Lyra goes first,” said Tim. “Pressure plate. Flames coming out of the walls. Dodge.”

If you’re hoping at this point that Silke rolls a twenty: you’re on the wrong page. Here, dice have an opinion. And that opinion is nasty.

A two.

The little thing lay there like a verdict. Leon whistled softly through his teeth. Bastian leaned forward. Tim flipped a page, even though he probably knew the sentence by heart.

“The heroine’s shirt catches fire. The fabric burns. She rips it off her body; otherwise, the fire will consume her skin.”

Silence. Just the refrigerator.

Silke laughed. Too brightly. Too quickly. “Okay, wait. That’s… I mean, Leon lost his shirt—sure, he’s the thief and the noose and whatever. But I’ve only just gotten started.”

“The trap doesn’t take a trial run,” said Tim.

Silke pushed the character sheet away from her, as if paper could negotiate. “Can’t I roll the dice again? I held the die wrong. Or… there’s gotta be a spell. Water. Extinguish. Something.”

Bastian grinned. “You want to roll for a bucket of water.”

“I don’t want to sit at the table half-naked while the three of you…” She searched for the word and couldn’t find one that sounded innocent. “While you watch.”

“House rule,” said Leon. He was still shirtless. The rule had muscles and nipples and was sitting right next to her. “What the Trap takes, it keeps.”

Silke crossed her arms over her chest. The white shirt was tight. Underneath, the light-colored bra suddenly seemed to offer too little mystery. “Then I’ll play someone else. A knight. In armor. Armor doesn’t burn like that.”

Tim smiled that innocent smile that was no longer innocent. “Lyra’s already set up. Switching characters in the middle of the trap is cheating. Jonas didn’t want the group to fall apart.”

Jonas. The name fell onto the table like a wet rag. Silke felt her neck grow hot.

“Then show me,” she said. A crack appeared in her naive tone. “The book. I want to see it. Is that really what it says? Really? Or did you three just make that up because I’m a girl and you’ve been staring at my shirt the whole time?”

Fair point. The page admits it. Staring isn’t a side activity in this chapter—it’s a sport.

Tim flipped through the binder. Thick paper. The heading was in a font that smelled of basements and candle wax. He slid it across the table until the edge bumped against Silke’s forearm.

“Traps and Physical Punishments,” he read, his finger under the line. “Effects apply to the character and, if house rules are in effect, to the player. Loss of clothing due to fire, acid, nooses, or dispelling is reenacted at the table.”

Silke leaned over it. She read it herself. Twice. The letters didn’t stop being there just because she was ashamed.

“That’s perverted.”

“That’s the adventure,” said Tim. “Tower of Desires. It says so right on the cover. It wasn’t in small print.”

Silke pushed the binder back a little. Her voice tightened, almost giggling with embarrassment—a last-ditch attempt to turn the whole thing into a joke.

“Isn’t that… gay? I mean. If four men are sitting here and one after another has to take off his shirt. What would you have done if Jonas had still been here? Would you have made him…“

She made a helpless gesture toward Leon’s bare chest.

Leon laughed. Not angrily. More like too honestly. “Sure.”

“Jonas would have followed the rules,” Tim said calmly. “Just like Leon. Trap hits thief: shirt off. Trap hits mage: shirt off. Trap hits the heroine’s friend: shirt off. We wouldn’t have spared him just because he’s the host. Rules that only apply to one person aren’t rules. They’re a free-for-all.”

Bastian nodded. “It would’ve been even funnier. Jonas sitting there shirtless. ”

Silke bit her lower lip. Somewhere deep inside her, the anonymous message was working its magic. Play it innocent. But beneath that, something else was at work: the fact that her body had already lost the battle. Her nipples were hard. The shirt suddenly felt too warm. Shame sat right next to arousal, sharing the same chair.

“Just the shirt,” she said softly. “Nothing more.”

Tim didn’t even bat an eye. “Today, the trap says: shirt. That’s all it says.”

Silke looked at the two on the table. Then at Leon’s bare shoulders. Then at the empty chair where Jonas had been sitting half an hour ago and had said, “Don’t be weird.”

She reached for the hem.

The movement wasn’t elegant. It was what’s left when you’ve used up three excuses and still win the book. The white shirt slid up. Stomach. The light-colored bra. The soft curve beneath it. For a second, the fabric caught in her hair, and all three saw her chest rise as she held her breath.

Then the shirt lay on her lap. Then on the back of the chair. Then back on her lap, because she didn’t know where to put her hands.

She sat at the table. Bra. Jeans. Red neck. Her nipples showed through the light fabric, clearly enough that Leon’s grin became a half-second too genuine.

“Happy?” Silke asked. It was meant to sound venomous. It sounded breathless.

Tim wrote something on the sheet as if it were bookkeeping. “Lyra is exposed down to her chest. The flames die out.”

Silke crossed her arms again. This time, it helped less. The bra wasn’t a hiding place, just a statement.

For two rooms, the game pretended once again to have some manners.

A door marked with runes. A lever that Bastian flipped without losing anything. A hallway where Tim deliberately talked at length about moss and dripping water, just so Silke would have time to cross her arms over her bra and pretend that was a sitting position and not a hiding spot. Leon remained shirtless and rolled the dice with a calmness that almost made Silke angry. Someone who no longer had a shirt could afford to be magnanimous.

Not Silke.

Her white shirt hung over the back of the chair like a piece of evidence. Beneath it, her light-colored bra—too sheer for three pairs of eyes. Every time she reached for the die, her chest rose. Every time, she pretended not to notice.

Then came the pit.

Tim lowered his voice. Not louder. Worse. That tone that suddenly turned a living room table to stone. “Lyra goes first. The tiles sound hollow. She realizes it too late. The floor gives way.”

Silke took the die. This side advises against optimism at this point. Optimism is for people who still have both pieces of clothing.

A three.

Leon made a sound that sounded like sympathy but wasn’t. Bastian set the bottle down.

Tim flipped the folder over before Silke could protest. “Deep shaft. Smooth walls. A ledge at the top. Nothing to hold onto at the bottom. Lyra gets her fingers caught on the edge.” He tapped a line. “Two ways out. It says so right here. In black and white.”

Silke leaned in, even though she already hated the fine print.

“First: Take off the leggings. The pants turn into a noose. She ties a knot in them, throws them up, and pulls herself up by the fabric. Second: Unfasten the bra strap. The fabric catches on a hook. One or the other. Immediately. Otherwise, the heroine falls.”

Pants or bra.

Naked below or free above.

In Jonas’s living room. At Jonas’s table. While Jonas was dealing with an emergency that no one who looked closely believed was real anymore.

Silke leaned back. Her arms crossed over her chest again. “This isn’t a trap. It’s… a perverse decision-making mask.”

“That’s the book,” said Tim. “You looked it up yourself earlier. Traps count.”

“Then I’ll roll for Climbing.”

“You did. Three. The wall’s too smooth.”

“For Strength.”

“Same wall.”

“On luck.”

Bastian laughed softly. “You’ve got about as much luck today as you have clothes.”

Silke looked at him, then at Leon, then at the empty chair. She tried again to sound naive, using that voice that made her sound like a beginner. “Guys. I’m already sitting here without a shirt. That’s enough of a… show, isn’t it? If Jonas comes back and I—“

“Jonas would’ve made the same move,” Tim said. “And the same choice. Rules that are bent just for you aren’t rules.”

Silke bit her lip. Her right hand moved to the waistband of her jeans. Her left to her bra strap. Both stayed there, as if two bad options were blocking each other out.

Jeans off.

Then she sat at the table in just her bra and panties. Every shift on the chair would be a risk. Every time she spread her knees. The jeans were at least a statement: *I’m still dressed.* Without them, that statement was dead.

Bra off.

Then her breasts were exposed. Pale pink. Firm. No more fabric behind which she could tuck her arms without it looking exactly like an invitation. Three guys. A meter away. No “I was just bending over.” Just bare breasts above the character sheet.

She swallowed.

The anonymous message was somewhere in her head and offered no helpful advice. *At least naked.* Not: which option felt less like betrayal.

“If I take the pants,” she said slowly, “I’ll be sitting here with my… you know.”

Leon shrugged. “Then take the other one.”

“The other one is worse.”

“Then take the pants.”

Silke let out a breath. A short, desperate laugh. “You guys are impossible.”

Tim waited. No urgency in his voice. Just the folder, open like a mouth.

She closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she could see both: her jeans on the floor, the light fabric between her legs not enough—or the bra on the table, and after that nothing left to cover her chest except her hands, and hands couldn’t hold on all evening.

She opened her eyes.

Her fingers left the waistband.

They moved to the strap.

“The bra,” she said hoarsely. “Not the pants. I… I’m keeping my jeans on. That’s less. It has to be less.”

No one objected. “Less” was a word without assurance in this tower.

Silke unhooked the back. The clasp gave way, small and loud in the silence. She held onto the cups for one more heartbeat, as if there were one last excuse between her skin and their gaze.

Then she exhaled.

And let go.